


SerendipiTEA

by jessicathebestica



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Because Courf and Jehan are perfection, Gen, M/M, Tea shop AU, We need more fics that focus on them, also: blind date awkwardnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicathebestica/pseuds/jessicathebestica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is ready for love.  So his friends set him up on a series of blind dates (more like disasters) at a tea shop that happens to employ a very nosy clerk. Jehan's only saving grace is that this (admittedly attractive) tea server turns out to be an excellent wing man, swooping in when the date is at it's absolute lowest point so Jehan can abandon ship.</p><p>Other than that, the man is extremely cocky and thinks Jehan likes to act like a little princess (which is ridiculous!) and he really needs to stop grinning all the time.  Also, they're not flirting so Cosette can just shut up about that already!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Date #1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newtmasdoesthedo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtmasdoesthedo/gifts).



Jehan was ready for love.  Truth be told, he was always ready for it, but love had yet to knock on his door.  He was at a good age to settle down, out of school and in a stable position at the Huntington Botanical Gardens in San Marino, CA.  He had a one-bedroom apartment just south of the mountains, which had a great view but got lonely sometimes.  He was still young, to be sure, but time wasn’t what triggered his desperation to fine love (instead of allowing it to fall in his lap like he always imagined). 

You see, our darling Jean Prouvaire had a little too much experience with unsuccessful relationships.  The number and magnitude of these colossal mistakes in his life would make anyone give up on love and choose eternal singledom.

But Jehan wasn’t just anyone.  He was an artist.  He was a thinker.  He had enough books to host an intimate library in his tiny apartment, and, of course, he had read them all.  Novels, poems, vignettes; they gave him hope, made him believe that anything was possible in this mundane existence if you wanted it bad enough.

What Jehan wanted was to find his soulmate.  He wanted his Darcy, wanted to fight off suitors like Penelope until his Odysseus rescued him.  Although, if he was being perfectly honest, the scenario he envisioned the most was that of Signor Benedick bantering cunningly with the hot-headed Beatrice.  They were clever and outspoken and really, quite ironically perfect for one another.  Yes, Jehan wanted that.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Jehan ‘sifted through the duds’.  He thought he might’ve been in love once or twice, even wept painfully into his glass of chardonnay when they left him high and dry, but in the end he did recover.  For Jehan, real love was everlasting.  So, when he moved on from his previous lovers less than a month after they would call it quits, he knew that none of them would’ve stayed in his life forever.  Lust and excitement fueled those attachments, nothing more.

When his desire for an undying love combined with the knowledge of his previous misfortunes, Jehan decided to take action—which is what brought him to this quaint, little tea shop, _Sereni-TEA_ , waiting for someone to recognize the origami rose resting atop his worn and oft-used copy of _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen.  He found the place on Yelp; tea seemed like the most viable option because it was less cliché than a coffeehouse and more intimate than a bar.

To put it plainly, Jean Prouvaire was on a blind date.  Desperate times called for desperate measures, he supposed.  There would be no ‘meet cute’ story to tell their future adopted children (he already had his heart set on having at least two), but if the guy was pleasant and had an infectious smile maybe it would all be worth it.

“Did you want a refill on your tea?” someone asked, walking by and taking a wet rag to all the empty tables.

“Yes, thank you,” Jehan responded, not looking up from his phone as he searched through Cosette’s friends list on Facebook to see if he could get a glimpse of this Grantaire fellow he was meeting.  “It’s English Breakfast with soy milk, a teaspoon of honey and two lemon slices on the side.”

“You got it.  Another blueberry scone as well?”

Jehan looked up at the tea clerk—that Facebook search was getting quite fruitless anyway and he’d just have to rely on Cosette’s insistence that he was ‘a good looking man’.  Jehan then gave the shop’s only server—who was kind of cute, but whatever—his best ‘are you kidding me?’ look.  “You of all people should know how many calories are in that thing.  I already regret polishing off the first one.”

The man smiled.  “You’re right, I do know.  My sincerest apologies for treating you like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Jehan quickly eyed the young man from head to toe, taking in the flour-covered apron and the chestnut-colored mop of hair in need of serious ‘quaffing’ and the smile that stretched upward on only half of his face as he looked down at his fair-haired customer.  “You’re forgiven.  You were just doing your job, I suppose.  I can’t really fault you for trying to sell your shop’s goods.”

“I’ll go start that tea for you straight away, your highness,” the man said with a mocking bow—and, really?  Was that necessary?  Jehan wasn’t trying to be persnickety, but carbs are an unfortunate part of life that one must look out for.

When the server returned with Jehan’s tea order, he pointed at the book and paper flower on the table.  “Let me guess.  Blind date?”

This was already an uneasy subject to approach his friends with, so talking about it to a complete stranger was not something Jehan was inclined to do.  “Is this one of those full-service tea shops where the purchases a customer makes is directly proportional to the amount of stimulating conversation the wait staff engages them in?”

“Only if you buy blueberry scones,” he replied cheekily, well aware of Jehan’s pointed sarcasm.  “Honestly, I was just curious.  Plus, I don’t know if you’ve taken a look around this place, but my only other customer right now is Mabeuf, and he sits in the same corner every afternoon, sipping on his iced tea with lemon for three hours and never once saying a word to me.  It gets kind of boring at this time of day, so I like to get to know anyone who walks in.”

He seemed harmless enough, Jehan thought.  Being bored and alone was not something the waifish poet was entirely fond of either.  “Alright, fine.  This might be a blind date and I might be a little bit or extremely nervous about it so please don’t start cracking jokes.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” the man said sincerely.  He carefully wiped his hands on his maroon apron before sitting down in the chair opposite Jehan.  “What time is this person meeting you?”

Jehan awkwardly shifted his eyes around the café and scratched behind his ear.  “Um…3:30?”

The man glanced at his watch, unable to hide the surprise on his face.  “Well, you know, depending on which direction he’s coming from, traffic can be a nightmare right about now and 40 minutes honestly isn’t that late.”

Jehan made a stifled noise in the back of his throat in lieu of a response.

“So,” the curly-haired man started, steering away from the tactlessness of his previous question, “ _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen.  I’ve heard that name before.  Did she write anything else?”

The pretty poet was able to momentarily forget how upset he was over the tardiness of his date because how could you not scoff at this guy’s lack of literary knowledge?  “Please tell me that was a joke.”  The resulting silence gave him his answer.  “ _Pride & Prejudice_…one of the most celebrated pieces of fiction over the last 200 years?  Ring any bells yet?”

The man folded his arms across his chest and squinted, deep in thought.  “Is that the one with the dancing and the big dresses and men on horseback?”

“I suppose that’s marginally accurate,” Jean Prouvaire replied, rolling his eyes.  “Although, you’ve also managed to describe half of the novels published during the 19th century, so, bravo.”

The server—what is the ‘tea’ equivalent to a coffee barista anyway?—couldn’t contain his amused grin. “Do you not like me or something?”

Jehan didn’t know how to answer this question properly because it really wasn’t fair to judge someone you’ve only known for, say, 20 minutes, but there was just something irksome and intrusive about him.  “I have yet to form a full opinion of you, but I can say that you’re not off to a good start.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not the one you’re meeting today because I have a funny feeling ‘I’ll call you’ is a line you’d use on me by the end of the night—with, of course, no real intention to call or text or interact with me in any sort of social setting again.”

Jehan frowned.  “You’re very presumptuous.  Has anyone ever told you that?”

That confident grin of his was getting way out of hand.  “Almost everyone I’ve ever met, actually.”  They both turned their heads at the sound of the bell that went off whenever someone walked through the door.  A disheveled brunette stood there, looking lost and, perhaps, half-asleep.  The tea clerk noticed the way the petite redhead’s hands began nervously fidgeting with his tea cup.  “Could this be the mystery date?”

“I won’t find out unless you get up and leave,” Jehan said impatiently.  “Go busy yourself with some fruit tarts or something.”

“As you wish, your highness.”  The man bowed once more for emphasis—to which Jehan rolled his eyes—and went back to his designated spot behind the counter.

Jehan observed the man by the door, though he still wasn’t sure if this was Cosette’s friend.  His hair was worse than the tea clerk’s, which made him cringe inwardly.  His clothes looked rumpled (possibly slept in) and the dark violet bags under his eyes indicated how little sleep he had gotten as of late.  Ugh.

Cosette wouldn’t really set him up with this guy, would she?  Not that Jehan was an advocate for judging a book by its cover, but look at him!  Maybe this wasn’t Grantaire though.  Maybe Jehan should just check his email and give the guy another ten minutes to show up before pulling the plug and just going home.  A nice, hot bath would be perfect right about n—

“Are you Jean?” a gruff voice beckoned.

Crap.  Jehan lifted his eyes only to confirm that it was the beaten and broken looking man who stepped into the shop a moment ago (and not, to his chagrin, some gorgeous knight in shining armor).  Cosette would have to be gently reminded later who Jehan’s type was.  “Yes, that’s me.  Although, most people call me Jehan.  You must be Grantaire.”

He nodded before sitting in the unoccupied steel-framed chair at Jehan’s table.  The permanent frown on Grantaire’s scruffy face was so disheartening that Jehan really wished one of his friends would call him right now as a diversion.  There truly wasn’t anything remotely appealing about this man so far.

“So, Grantaire,” the long-haired poet prompted, assuming he was responsible for getting a dialogue to start flowing, “what exactly do you do?”

The brunette shrugged, which was apparently exhausting because his arms fell limply at his sides.  “I don’t know, I mean I kind of consider myself an entrepreneur.”

There was an amused snort from the other side of the small shop and it caught Jehan’s particular attention.  Was that little shit eavesdropping on their conversation?  Jehan would certainly have a few choice words for the man after his (so-called) date was through—and he could forget about a tip!

Grantaire must not have heard the tea clerk’s short burst of laughter because he continued.  “I do a lot of odd jobs here and there because my skills are pretty versatile, except I don’t do computers.  Those things have too much going on all at once.  If I get some free time, I like to work on my paintings.”

The last statement piqued Jehan’s interest.  “You like art?  That’s really cool.  What are the biggest influences for your style?”  Perhaps there was something they could agree on after all. 

“Well,” Grantaire started, scratching his head as he tried to think of artists’ names and what they painted, “sorry, I’m nursing a killer hangover right now so it’s hard to think clearly.  Um, I really don’t like to restrict myself to a particular classification or period.  Usually, I just get inspired by something I see and then add an antiquated twist to it to kind of represent a merging of worlds.”

Jehan nodded enthusiastically, quite intrigued by Grantaire’s description of his art pieces.

“For instance,” he continued, “I’ve recently been working on this series that is heavily inspired by Greek…Greek…um, Greek mythology.”  The man visibly shivered, and Jehan wondered if he should be worried that Grantaire looked so deeply affected by this inspiration.

“Is everything alright?” the redhead asked softly.  There was legitimate concern in Jehan’s voice because even though the dark-haired man wasn’t all that desirable to Jehan, he was certainly pitiable.  The man also proved that he had at least one redeemable quality: he was passionate about art.  The passion was as plain as the nose on his face and it made Jehan think that if the man wasn’t frowning all the time, he could be handsome.

Grantaire rubbed his eyes harshly, as if the motion could wipe away the images imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.  “What?  Oh, no.  I mean, yes.  I’m fine.  I’ll be fine.”  He began drumming his fingertips against the edge of the table before adding, “there’s no chance I could get a glass of whiskey around here, is there?”

Jehan gave him a disparaging look.  “This is a tea house.  They sell tea and cakes.  That’s about it.”  The young poet was losing interest again.

To the surprise of both parties, that meddling tea clerk approached their table and set a full glass of something greenish-brown in front of his newest patron.  To Grantaire’s despair, it was not whiskey.  “It might not be hair of the dog that bit you, mate, but my mom’s special hangover cure has a kick that’s sharper than a steel-toed boot to the ass.  I’ve been spared many groggy mornings and ear-splitting headaches because of this stuff.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said with a slight grimace before taking a sip and promptly spitting it out—fortunately, not on Jehan’s brand new, cobalt blue cashmere sweater.  “I take my gratitude back.  Why would you let me drink put that horrendous concoction in my mouth?”

“That’s what she said,” the curly-haired server replied on impulse before laughing at the man and slapping him on the back.  “And since when do ‘hangover cures’ actually taste good?  Your little friend is right though, mate.  This is a tea shop.  No booze on the premises, sorry.”

Grantaire shrugged half-heartedly and, after several pronounced glares from Jehan, the tea clerk finally went back to work—that snarky smile still on his face.

“So, this art you’re doing sounds very intriguing,” Jehan started up again.  “Which Greek gods and goddesses are you channeling?  Zeus?  Aphrodite?”

Grantaire clenched his hand around the cup that contained the vile, thick liquid he had no intention of drinking any further.  “That’s actually kind of a sore subject, so we should probably just talk about something else.”

The poet didn’t need to be told twice.  Making Grantaire uncomfortable when he was already on edge did not seem like a wise decision.  “Oh, that’s fine.  I guess I could tell you a little about myself then.  Let’s see, I moved here from Minnesota about 2 years ago.  I hate cold winters so I definitely wouldn’t consider going back.  I’ve been working as an Events Coordinator at the Huntington Botanical Gardens for about a y—”

“The thing is,” Grantaire interrupted—Jehan had wondered if he was listening at all, “I recently got out of a very serious relationship and I’ve been taking it pretty hard.  I don’t know if Cosette told you or anything.”

Why, no.  Cosette did not inform Jehan that she was setting him up with an alcoholic slob who happened to carry with him a fair amount of emotional baggage.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  Relationships are tough.”

Jehan really should’ve put more effort into changing the subject because the next thing he knew, Grantaire’s baggage was ripped wide open and spilling all over the table.  “It was my own fucking fault!  I shouldn’t have pushed him, shouldn’t have been so pathetically needy…but how can you not act possessive about being with a god like him?  Ugh!  I fucked up!  I fucked up so hard and—and I just need to find out how to make things okay again.”

Jehan was wide-eyed and internally panicking.  Was it customary for blind dates to have a complete and total meltdown regarding an ex-lover?  If so, the fair-haired poet was pretty sure he wanted to call it quits on this whole ‘search for love’ thing.  Having tea with a series of psychopaths was none too appealing for him.

“With respect to full disclosure,” Jehan said once he found his voice—and once the depressed brunette stopped crying, “is there a legitimate reason why Cosette thought you were ready to date other people?”

Grantaire wiped at his wet cheek with the back of his hand.  “I don’t know.  I think she just hoped that meeting other people might help me get over him.  She kept saying my relationship with him was unhealthy—which is stupid because her only argument is that I happened to be in love with him for three years before he so much as smiled at me.  Whatever.  That’s just how he is.  Nobody else gets it.”

“Well, I certainly don’t.  But, then again, I don’t know this man you speak of, so it’s not my place to judge your actions.  What I do get, however, is that this set up was clearly a mistake and you should probably go sober up before you decide to go crawling back to your ex.”  Jehan rose from his chair and flashed the only thin-lipped smile he could muster.  “Goodbye, Grantaire.  This experience has been…enlightening.”

Any kind of movement still took quite a lot of effort on Grantaire’s part, so he just sat there for a while as Jehan made his way to the counter to pay for his two teas and blueberry scone.

The brunette behind the counter was gnawing on his bottom lip, trying very hard not to grin or laugh or blurt out some mocking remark and Jehan wasn’t going to stand around to find out which.  “If you so much as breathe a word of what you just witnessed I will find out where you live and hire someone to castrate you in your sleep.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up even higher.  “Like a hitman?  You wouldn’t do it yourself?”

“I’m averse to getting my hands dirty.  I prefer to be the mob boss with lots of connections and people willing to take out the trash for me, if you catch my drift.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’ve made this threat before?” the man asked suspiciously.

The poet pursed his lips.  “That’s classified.”  But the weight of his atrocious blind date crept back into his mind and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped as he threw his head down on the linoleum countertop.  “I am never dating again!  It’s just too stressful.  I’m really much better off throwing my life into my work, and once I’ve hit retirement I can find a cottage near Temecula where I can spend the rest of my days writing poems and knitting sweaters for the ten cats I’ll probably own since I won’t have any grandchildren to make them for.”

Warm breath tickled the top of Jehan’s scalp when the man leaned over the counter, his palm supporting his cheek.  “Listen, you’ve already made it reasonably clear that you don’t give a damn about my two cents, but if I were you, I wouldn’t give up just yet.  I mean, you’re really young.  How old are you anyway?  23?”

“Add two more rings to that tree and you’ll hit your mark,” Jehan grumbled into the cold surface beneath him.

“Okay,” the tea clerk started, “so, you’re 25.  You have so much time to find someone still.  I know that it can be discouraging when all these people you knew from high school are getting married and having kids, but how often do these relationships really last?  Young love, summer flings, blind dates…they’re all just learning experiences to better prepare you for when you do find the right one.  Because it will be different then, and you’ll know.  If you give up now, you could very easily let your prince charming slip right passed you.”

Jehan wasn’t sure when he picked his head back up and started staring at the man in front of him—probably somewhere between ‘young love’ and ‘the right one’.  He was being nice.  The whole hour and a half Jehan spent in this tea shop consisted of delicious tea, an admittedly unstable date, and a server who seemed to enjoy mocking the poet more than honing his customer service skills.  But now he was being a genuinely nice guy, providing sound advice that he would consider later in the comfort of his porcelain bathtub, a glass of white wine in hand.

“Perhaps I’ll give that some thought,” the shorter young man said shyly with his head down because this was a personal conversation to have with friends and not with strangers who make fairly decent tea.  “How much do I owe you for the tea and scone?”

The brunette didn’t reply for a moment, instead fascinated by the way the 25 year-old man’s cheeks attempted to match the color of his glossy, straight hair.  He smiled then, softer than the taunting grins from before.  “It’s on the house.  I think you’ve paid enough in emotional damage for today.”

This was the first time that Jehan smiled back at the man.  “Thank you.  I’m Jean Prouvaire, by the way.  Jehan for short.”

“Courfeyrac,” the brunette replied, shoving a small pastry box in front of Jehan and slowly backing away toward the supply room.  “Feel free to come back if you decide to give dating another go.”


	2. Date #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: slight mention of blood in this chapter. It involves Bahorel, after all.

A week later, Jehan walked through the front door of _Sereni-TEA_ and could not stifle the fact that he was glad to see the tea clerk from last Tuesday—that creepy, old man, Mabeuf, was back as well but Jehan paid no mind to that.  He marched over to where Courfeyrac was sweeping and noticed how the man’s face instantly brightened the moment he saw Jehan.

“You’re back,” he said gleefully. 

“So it appears,” Jehan said as he tried to pull off a look of casual indifference.  “Courfeyrac, was it?”

The brunette nodded.  “And you’re his royal highness, Jean Prouvaire.  Or, just Jehan.”

The red-headed poet rolled his eyes.  “I’m going to ignore your penchant for referring to me as a member of a monarchy for the time being because I have a very important question to ask you.”  The clerk leaned his broom against the counter and folded his arms across his chest, giving Jehan his undivided attention.  “Well, two actually.  1) Is that pastry you gave me made with crack and 2) for the love of god, what is it called?”

“I’m immensely pleased that you liked it,” Courfeyrac responded with an earth-shattering smile.  It was kind of amazing how his whole face just glowed with the sentiment he expressed in that smile.  “And, no, my mother taught me at a young age not to put drugs in the food I bake.  I hear you can get arrested for that.”

“Haha.  Yes, your sarcasm and wit make you oh so charming and I bet you’re a barrel of fun at parties, now will you please tell me the name of that itty bitty sandwich thingy with the cream cheese and lemon custard filling?”

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows in amusement.  “Someone’s testy today.  You don’t by chance have another date this evening, do you?”

Jehan went from slightly antsy to glaring daggers in mere seconds.  “Are you purposely ignoring my question or do you honestly have no idea what you put in that pastry box?”

“Now who’s ignoring the question?” the chestnut-haired server asked with a tilt of his head.

Jehan made a sound then that wasn’t quite a shout, but not simply the product of clearing his throat.  It was guttural and fierce, paired with a peevish look and a pronounced stomp of his feet.  “Fine!  This is another date and I’m really starting to regret choosing this place again because the service is below standard and the best item on the menu has no name.  Now that I answered your question, will you answer mine?”

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac mused, his thumb and forefinger stroking his chin.  “I’m rather entertained by your imitation of a toddler leaving a toy store empty handed.  At any rate, the menu doesn’t feature that dessert because last week was my first time making it.  I just kind of threw some stuff together and hoped it turned out well.”

“So, I was your guinea pig?”

Courfeyrac almost responded with ‘a very cute guinea pig’ but had a feeling that the redhead would completely take his comment out of context.  “Something tells me you’re okay with that considering how much you liked the crème-filled pastry.  And I am grateful, by the way.  I take feedback regarding my personal creations very seriously.”

“Do you create like that a lot?” the poet asked, his elbows supporting his weight as he leaned back against the counter.

“Only when inspired.”  Courfeyrac smiled bashfully, hoping the man with ridiculously long tresses wouldn’t notice the subtle implication of his words.  “But, enough about me.  I’m much more interested in the story behind date #2.  And before you object—which I already see your mouth trying to do—I promise to send you home with another one of those ‘itty bitty sandwich thingys with the cream cheese and lemon custard’ if you indulge me for a moment or two.”

It was important for Jehan to pretend like he was carefully considering this compromise, when in actuality he would do whatever he had to for another one of those treats.  Plus, sharing this intimate information with the tea clerk he had met twice now was (surprisingly) less daunting than he thought.  “Make it two and we’ve got a deal.”

To finalize their verbal agreement, Courfeyrac stuck out his hand for the younger man to shake.  Their hands clasped and moved of their own accord.  It was the strangest thing, but a part of Jehan didn’t want to let go.  The brunette’s fingertips were rough, but his palm was warm and soft like a glove that fit just right.  A tingling sensation reverberated against Jehan’s skin and crawled its way up the delicate contours of his arm.  Why was a handshake getting him this excited?  This never happened!

Probably because it had already stopped being a handshake and somehow turned into hand holding.  When Jehan realized this he quickly released the man’s hand and began nervously fidgeting with a lock of his long, copper-colored hair.

“So, this guy I’m meeting in a few minutes,” Jehan started, primarily because he needed something to distract his thoughts, “is a bartender at _The Musain_ , that dark brick building across from the shopping plaza.  He’s my friend, Feuilly’s, new roommate.  I haven’t officially met him yet, but after last week’s fiasco, I made sure to get a little more background info and look at a picture before agreeing to anything.”

Courfeyrac ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently on his dark curls.  “Well, considering you’re meeting him right now, I’m guessing he seemed harmless enough.  Is he cute?”

Jehan didn’t know why he felt weird answering that question, but he did.  “I don’t know, I mean, kinda.  He’s a little more muscular than I usually prefer but he’s got a nice face.  Honestly, the biggest factor in my decision was when I glanced at his Facebook page.  His wall is filled with sweet messages and pictures with bar patrons.  A lot of people like him, especially drunks who could use an attentive listener.  I like compassionate men.”

“Compassion is often hard to come by.”  The tea clerk bit his lip and grabbed the broom to resume his work.  “Well, I hope this one works out.”

The petite poet scrutinized the man before him—making Courfeyrac slightly unnerved by the gesture.  “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

Waving three fingers in the air, Courfeyrac replied with, “Scout’s honor, there’s no funny business here.  You deserve to find someone that makes you happy, Jehan.”

It’s peculiar.  Since his recent determination to find love, Jehan really never thought about who could make him _happy_.  The two ought to go hand-in-hand, but being that little Jean Prouvaire was a poet and had a profound appreciation for dramatic arts, the love he envisioned for himself wasn’t at all happy.  It was fated by the stars.  It was boundless.  It was wrought with an intense ability to overcome any obstacle.

It was also completely unrealistic.

Maybe Jehan was going about this all wrong.  Coming back from his thoughts, he smiled sadly in response to Courfeyrac’s words.  “I do hope I’m deserving of such happiness.”

Courfeyrac looked ready to retort—he could see the concealed pain in the redhead’s smile and hear the hesitation in his voice—but the front door bell alerted them both and stopped any and all conversation.  The man walking in was tall, with unbelievably broad shoulders.  His skin was tan, almost leather-like, but there was certainly something very appealing about the sharp angles of his face. 

It was Courfeyrac’s turn to smile sadly.  “I’m assuming this is him, so I’ll leave you be.”

The clerk finished sweeping as the poet (somewhat reluctantly) went to greet his date.  “Hi,” he said cheerily, putting his previous discussion at the back of his mind, “I’m Jehan.  Feuilly’s told me a lot about you.”

The large man shook Jehan’s hand—which was quite firm but not at all like the handshake from moments ago—and let out a tooth-baring grin.  “Bahorel, and likewise.”

“Let’s sit over here,” the fair young man prompted, tilting his head in the intended direction.  “I think I like this table the best.  It’s near an air vent and right by the window which gives us the perfect view of the mountains.”

“It sounds like you thought of everything,” Bahorel said with a soft chuckle.  “However, from what I’ve witnessed, the perfect view is actually from on top of the mountains.  Have you ever gone hiking up there before?”

Jehan winced, marginally ashamed of his inactive physique.  “I’m not sure my scrawny legs would allow it.  They’re usually pretty good at telling me what my limits are and I’m fairly certain that includes anything with an upward slope.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  You’re really missing out.  I kind of live by this mantra where pain is usually worth the ending result.”

Jehan could hear footsteps behind him and since Mabeuf was still comfortably seated in his corner booth, the only other person it could be was Courfeyrac.  He decided to snag him on his way over so they could make their drink orders.  “Bahorel, do you know what you’re ordering?”  The man nodded.  “Hey, Courfeyrac!  I think we’re ready to—”

The rest of Jehan’s sentence was silenced by the cup and saucer Courfeyrac carefully placed in front of him.  It was light in color and had two lemon wedges on the side.  Just to be sure, the poet took a small sip.  It was the exact same drink he ordered last week.  Jehan looked up at Courfeyrac, a look of gentle surprise in his eyes, as if saying _you remembered_.

Courfeyrac didn’t respond, but there was a satisfied smirk on his face when he turned to ask Bahorel what he wanted to drink.

Fifteen minutes later, Bahorel was drinking his coffee—thankfully, Cour feyrac had a coffeemaker because Bahorel wasn’t a big fan of tea, which was something Jehan spent too much time trying to comprehend—and scarfing down a bran muffin.  They both talked about how much they love their job and how they would never want to move anywhere other than California.  Everything was going smoothly…until Bahorel’s dirty little secret revealed itself.

“Yeah, you kind of have to take the good with the bad in my line of work,” Bahorel explained.  “I mean, not every customer is gonna be easy and tip well.  I’ve got stories that will make your jaw drop, but the most difficult part of dealing with rowdy, rude drunks is that I can’t physically knock some sense into them, you know?  Policy says we can’t engage in fights, so whenever it looks like a customer wants to have it out with me, I gotta take a few minutes out back to collect myself.”

Jehan had never been to _The Musain_ before, but all this talk of _jaw-dropping stories_ and _rowdy drunks_ seemed a bit too much for his liking already.  “Do people try to start fights often?”

Bahorel shrugged as he considered Jehan’s question.  “Not really.  I mean, we’ve managed to knock it down to only like four fights a week now.  Holidays are the worst though.  A woman once threw a beer bottle at my head and it took every ounce of restraint to calmly escort her outside instead of turning into the Hulk and twisting her arm.  That’s why I’m so glad I found an outlet to relieve my work frustrations.”

“What’s that?” Jehan asked curiously, though a little on the apprehensive side.

Bahorel grinned as if this was what he had been waiting to talk about all day.  “I would be cliché about it and reply that I’m not at liberty to say, but our rules are a bit different from the movie.  Anyway, I’m part of this fight club that meets every Monday night.  All of the club members are very ‘physical’ people like me.  We have stresses, either at work, at home or in general and we…well, we punch the crap out of each other.  It’s actually very therapeutic and has probably saved my ass from getting fired on multiple occasions.”

This was not what the small poet expected.  “A fight club?  Those things exist?”

“Absolutely!” the hulking man exclaimed enthusiastically.  “Going to these meetings stops me from doing something I’d regret.  It’s not healthy to let overwhelming feelings bottle up inside of you, and fight club is my way of letting them out.  Oh, man, you should’ve seen some of the nasty licks I got.  My boss is convinced that I live in a bad part of town because he thinks I’m getting repeatedly mugged or something.  Here, I think I still have a picture of what my face looked like after Manny’s killer left hook split my eyebrow open.”

Bahorel whipped out his phone and started scrolling through his cameral roll while his date remained frozen in his seat.  Jehan had no interest in seeing evidence of this man’s ritualistic fighting.  He really wasn’t good with blood and if Bahorel tried to show him any protruding bones, Jehan was liable to throw up on the spot.

“You know what,” the petite young man said suddenly, “I’ll take your word for it.  You see, I kind of don’t handle—”

“Look,” Bahorel practically shouted, ignoring Jehan and thrusting his phone in the man’s face.  Jehan flinched back.  He tried to look anywhere except directly at the screen in front of him, but the blurry photo was starting to come into focus and then all he could see was a giant gash curving from the top of Bahorel’s brow to his temple, blood trickling down the right side of his face.  “I had to get 15 stitches to sew that baby up.  It was over a year ago but you can still see the scar if you look close enough.”  Bahorel lifted the hair out of his eyes to demonstrate.

“That’s okay,” the poet slowly breathed out, bringing a hand to his mouth just in case he couldn’t keep his lunch down.  Alright, so date #2 wasn’t going well either.  It wasn’t that Bahorel was a particularly bad or psychotic guy, but they clearly had nothing in common.  Jehan was horticulture and love and prose.  Bahorel was mountain trails and violence and battle scars.  It was safe to say they were not a match made in heaven.

As Jehan thought of an inoffensive, uncomplicated way to put an end to this nausea-inducing date, someone else beat him to it.  “Hey, Jehan,” Courfeyrac greeted as he approached their table, “sorry to interrupt your date but I thought you should know that I may have accidentally put soy milk in your tea and I remembered your allergy so I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The freckle-faced man gave Courfeyrac a bewildering look as Bahorel voiced his concern.  “Shit.  How allergic are we talking here?”

“Very,” Courfeyrac answered with ease.  “When Jehan mistakenly eats or drinks anything that has soy in it…well, it’s horrifying.  I’m talking skin irritation and swelling of the throat terrifying.  Not to mention his permanent attachment to a toilet for at least 24 hours.  Come to think of it, you’re starting to look awfully pale, Jehan.”

During the tea clerk’s detailed explanation of his bold-faced lie, Jehan was able to process what the man was trying to accomplish and even figured out how to lend a hand.  “Oh,” he groaned weakly, clutching his belly.  “I didn’t bring my EpiPen today, Courfeyrac.  What are we gonna do.”

“Here,” the curly-haired man said, lifting Jehan out of his seat by the elbow, “let’s get you in the bathroom.  If your tongue starts tingling, let me know immediately.”

When Jehan reached the bathroom, he closed the door behind him and locked it.  He splashed some water on his face because he did look a bit pale—probably because of that disgusting photo now imprinted on his brain.  How long he needed to stay in the bathroom was still unclear, but it was nice to have a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

He thought about the two dates he had been on.  Though these men were completely different, they both ended in disappointment.  The one thing that linked these two men was the fact that they were both set up by his friends.  Jehan assumed asking his friends to help him meet new people was the logical thing to do because they knew him better than anyone else.  They knew about all of his previous boyfriends, what he liked to do in his spare time, and even who his celebrity crushes were.  So, why did they think despondent Grantaire and prizefighter Bahorel would be a good fit for him?  Did they just not know any other gay, single men in southern California?

Perhaps it was time for a change in venue.  Jehan was averse to the idea for the longest time, but maybe he was finally ready to make an online dating profile.  He had heard so many stories over the years about successful relationships and eventual marriages through some of the more well-known websites that it started to appeal to him.  Again, no “meet cute”, but it sounded a lot better to be matched with someone that complimented his personality than to continue with what he was currently doing—which was standing in a public bathroom, hiding from his date.

A knock on the door startled Jehan.  It wasn’t just any knock, though.  It sounded like a code—Morse Code, maybe?  Jehan wasn’t entirely sure.  Anyway, he was fairly confident that Courfeyrac was the one knocking, so he turned the locking mechanism and slowly opened the door wide enough for his head to pop out.

“Coast is clear,” Courfeyrac announced, leaning against the wall.  “The Tyler Durden impersonator has left the building.  He looked rather reluctant to pursue another date with you when I ruled out sushi restaurants because of your ‘soy allergy’.  But it least he was a gentleman and paid for your drink.”

Jehan emerged from the bathroom completely.  “Thank goodness I don’t actually have that allergy because I’d be bummed about the sushi thing too.”  The poet squinted as a thought came to him.  “You know, I’m pretty sure that someone with a severe allergy to soy would notice the soy milk in their tea after the first sip.  I drained my cup without flinching.”

The curly-haired tea clerk shrugged.  “Judging by the way he responded, I doubt he stopped to consider that.  Besides, I think the attention to detail in other areas helped out.  Nice thinking with the EpiPen, by the way.”

“Why, thank you,” Jehan said with a dramatic curtsy—the irony of his gesture not lost on him.  All joking aside, Jehan was proud of their mutual efforts to scare of his equally scary date. “I think we make a pretty good team.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t look away from the spritely young man.  “I think so, too.”

“You’re probably the best wingman I’ve ever had.”  Courfeyrac’s shoulders fell at these words, but not enough to alert Jehan, who continued.  “My friends are the worst at judging if I’m interested or not, hence the two dates that never had a chance at any future dates.  So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would be nice to have a reliable wingman to bale me out of situations that are going downhill fast…wink wink, nudge nudge.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, but the grin was there at least.  “Where did all of this confidence and planning for ‘future dates’ come from?  I half-expected you to throw your head against the counter and mumble out another spinsterhood speech.  What changed?”

“Well,” the redhead started, flashing one of his pretty smiles, “I had a lot of time to think in the bathroom—”

“Which is only natural.”

Jehan glared at him for interrupting, but pressed on.  “And I realized that in order to increase the potential for a second date, they have to have more in common with me besides some mutual friend.”

The brunette had a sneaking suspicion he knew where this was going.  “Are you talking about going on one of those dating website like match.com?”  The poet nervously bit his lip in reply.  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jehan said—which was absurd because they had only known each other for a week and in that week spoken twice.  “I had my reservations as well, but then I remembered that was how my cousin met her husband and my friend met his girlfriend of…what is it?  Three years now, I think.  Anyway, I’m ready for something different.  Something that says, ‘Hey, stop waiting around for someone to ask you out. Let a highly-specialized database do it for you!’  You know?”

“Life isn’t about ‘waiting around’, Jehan.  If you meet someone you like, that you really like, you just…I don’t know, seize the opportunity.  Don’t let them slip past you.”  Courfeyrac would eat his words later.

The gentle poet sounded coy in his reply.  “It’s not as simple as that.”  He bowed his head with a mournful, drawn out sigh.  “I can’t…I’ve never actually approached someone with that intent before.”

“You mean, you’ve never asked someone out?” Courfeyrac asked plainly.  Wisps of copper hair flew in Jehan’s face as he shook his head.  “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” Jehan lamented, throwing his hands up with an exaggerated air.  “It’s just hard, okay.  I know you think I’m some little princess that always gets what they want, but it’s not true.  I want so many things but the introvert in me won’t make it happen.  You can’t just tell an acrophobic to go skydiving.  These things take time and baby steps, and the steps I want to make toward finding my soul mate involve social networking sites.  Okay?”

Courfeyrac nodded, distressed by the fact that he caused Jehan to get so worked up about this.  “Okay.  We won’t use _carpe diem_ as your new motto.  The internet is an abundant resource and I’m sure you’ll find someone worth meeting face-to-face.  I’m your wingman, remember?  I’ll support whatever decision you make.”

The pout on Jehan’s lips started to curve upward.  “Thank you.  I would hug you for saying that except I don’t think we’re at that point in our friendship yet, so a _thank you_ is all I can offer.  Tuesdays are my day off of work, if you haven’t already noticed, so if everything goes as planned I’ll just see you next Tuesday.  If not, then the one after that.”

“Even if you don’t have a date,” Courfeyrac said, sincerity in his voice, “you can always stop by just to talk or something.”

Jehan bit his lip to fend off the impending smile.  “Yes, I suppose I could do that.  Anyway, I should probably get going now.”

“Can it wait?”  Courfeyrac asked, a little too eagerly.  “I mean, those nameless lemon-flavored crème puffs aren’t finished and I promised to give you two before you left today.”

In all honesty, the poet would’ve loved to stay.  This initially irritating tea clerk had turned into someone Jehan felt comfortable calling a friend in just a matter of days, and although it was bizarre it was also wonderful.  Courfeyrac was funny, but knew when a conversation called for a certain type of candor, and he still couldn’t believe how quickly the brunette had jumped in to save Jehan from spending any more time with his burly date.  Courfeyrac was definitely a guy Jehan could spend time with.

Which was precisely the reason why Jehan had to leave, before he started developing fantasies in his head about what it would’ve been like if he did decide to hug him…or kiss him.

No.  Jehan needed to stop romanticizing every friend he made.  It was ridiculous and there was no certainty Courfeyrac could like him in that way and it definitely was not worth losing his companionship just to find out.

“Just have some waiting for me the next time I come in,” Jehan finally said as soon as he was able to tear his eyes away from Courfeyrac’s lips.  A rush of emotion had an overwhelming presence on Jehan and he needed to get out of there ASAP.  “You should put the ones you’re making now on display for your other customers.  I think they’ll be a hit.  Although, be sure to come up with a name before you do.  Bye, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac followed Jehan’s suggestion, and after that day Prouvaire Éclairs became a staple at the _Sereni-TEA_ tea shop.


	3. Date #6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! So, this chapter. This chapter is the reason I started writing this fic in the first place. For reasons. I hope you like it (there's a little side e/R incorporated into this one). I think I'm just gonna do two more chapters for this fic because, let's be honest, you can only create so much sexual tension before Jehan and Courf just want to jump each other's bones. Anyway, here you go!

The next few weeks went along in this fashion.  After setting up his dating profile, Jehan was shocked by the number of interested parties.  Some he ruled out right away, but others he considered and even managed to snag a few Tuesday afternoon dates out of.

Date # 3 was sweet and very spirited, but had a particular aversion to germs that, at first, seemed logical but eventually had Jehan wary of touching or doing anything that would cause the young man to let out a mortified shriek.

Courfeyrac caught onto Jehan’s distress signals and made quick work of ending the date, later vowing to discontinue his ‘royal’ endearments toward Jehan because at least he didn’t have panic attacks about dust particles.

Date # 4 was not much of an improvement.  He asked so many questions that Jehan felt that an interrogation room was a more appropriate setting.  He was a bit older too and the age gap was noticeable in the fact that their interests never overlapped. 

Jehan was somewhat amazed by the skill Courfeyrac  exhibited in what they termed ‘extracting’.  All Jehan had to do was tug gently on his ear and within seconds the chestnut-haired tea clerk came stumbling over and exclaimed how he just witnessed a mugging down the street.  Date # 4 jumped from his chair and was out the door in a flash and it was only then that Jehan realized the aging man was an officer of the law.

Date # 5…ugh.  Jehan was not in the mood to relive date # 5 so let’s just say it didn’t end well.

Which brings us to today for date # 6.  Jehan really hoped the picture attached to this man’s profile was an accurate representation because holy hot damn the guy was gorgeous!  So gorgeous—and apparently, quite accomplished—that Jehan managed to switch his day off to Saturday this week to accommodate his date’s busy schedule.

Coming to Sereni-TEA on a Saturday morning was a completely new experience.  Jehan often wondered how Courfeyrac’s boss managed to keep this business afloat when every time he came in, there were scarcely any customers apart from Jehan and old man Mabeuf.  His curiosities were now answered as he took in all the occupied tables and scattered conversations.  There were two clerks behind the counter, busily shuffling their way around to accommodate each customer.

It was nice to see that this place had a following, but somehow, he missed the intimacy of the tea shop on Tuesday afternoons with Courfeyrac and, yes, even Mabeuf.  Come to think of it…where was Courfeyrac?

Jehan sighed, closing his eyes to clear his head and think.  Saturdays must have been his day off and the poet felt stupid for not telling Courfeyrac his date was changed this week because now he had no wingman and no potential escape for if (or when) the date took a sudden nosedive.  Apart from feeling stupid, Jehan also realized that he was saddened by the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing his favorite tea clerk today.  The shaggy-haired brunette had somehow crawled under Jehan’s skin with his infectious smiles and dorky quips.

Okay, so perhaps Jehan had a bit of a crush.  He was willing to admit it due to the fact that his stomach did this little fluttering thing every Tuesday when he walked in and saw Courfeyrac flash his bright grin.

“Are you alright, sir?” a feminine voice asked.

Jehan apparently had his eyes closed for a bit too long as he stood in the middle of the tea shop and he was starting to get peculiar stares from the patrons.  The woman in front of him wore an apron similar to Courfeyrac’s and at least her look was one of concern.

“Yes, I’m fine.  Thanks.”  Jehan was going to leave it at that.  He planned on smiling politely at the young woman with auburn hair before trying to locate an empty table since his favorite spot was already taken.  But then the part of him that itched to know won out.  “Actually, miss, do you know if Courfeyrac is working at all today?”

She shook her head.  “Sorry, he doesn’t normally…hang on!  You wouldn’t happen to be Jean Prouvaire, would you?”

The poet blushed and nodded.  Was Courfeyrac talking about him or something?  Also, why was his stomach doing back flips at the thought of him doing just that?

“Oh my gosh!” the woman exclaimed, practically jumping up and down.  “Jean Prouvaire!  The inspiration behind Prouvaire Éclairs!  Do you even know how well those things are selling?”

He knew about Courfeyrac’s clever name for the lemon-filled pastries (which prompted one of his signature eye rolls) but that was about it.  “I wouldn’t use the word inspiration.  He had me try one and I told him to give it a name, that’s all.”

The young woman then smirked in a way that rivaled Courfeyrac’s self-confident grins which made Jehan wonder if they were both good friends.  “Is that the story we’re sticking with?  Alright, I see how it goes.  I’m Eponine, by the way.  As I was saying before, Courf doesn’t normally come in on Saturdays, but I have a hunch he’ll be stopping by later…for, uh, shipment.”

“Oh,” Jehan said, trying to hide his delight.  “Great, thanks.  It was really nice to meet you, Eponine.”

“Likewise,” she said warmly.  “Maybe I’ll see you around more often.”  The girl waved goodbye before running off because the other clerk manning the cash wrap was yelling for her to grab some more Darjeeling from the supply room.

It then took Jehan approximately ten minutes to claim a table right as someone was leaving.  It was really quite noisy today and certainly not an ideal atmosphere to get to know someone.  Perhaps there was still time to contact his date and recommend another venue.

But then he would miss Courfeyrac.

Not to say that he ‘missed’ Courfeyrac—though not seeing him this past Tuesday threw off his routine a bit—and it really shouldn’t matter whether or not he saw the man this week because he was here on a date.  Not with Courfeyrac.  He was not dating Courfeyrac.  Oh my god, he wanted to date Courfeyrac.

Jehan didn’t have time to ponder over this any longer, however, because all thoughts of the grinning brunette were pushed aside the moment a blonde angel was standing before him.  Seriously, it should have been a crime to be that painstakingly handsome.  The stern countenance reflected on his marble-like face made this man look like a fierce warrior and a Disney princess all at once.

“Jehan, I presume?” 

The redheaded poet knew he was staring and his lack of an automatic response indicated that the blonde could probably feel his awkward stare.

Finally finding the good sense to snap out of it and act like a mature adult, Jehan smiled before replying, “Yes, that’s me.  And you are…forgive me, I wasn’t quite sure how to pronounce your name.”

“No one can,” the breathtaking blonde said, “it’s something I’ve come to live with.  It’s Enjolras.”  He said it slowly and with a sexy French accent that made Jehan’s toes curl.

Enjolras took his seat and they started with casual pleasantries and inquiries regarding occupations—the usual stuff.  Jehan was quite pleased that they didn’t have to relocate on account of the noise level because Enjolras’ voice was strong and clear, having an imperceptibly authoritative air.  The date was going so well that the poet really didn’t think he needed Courfeyrac as a backup plan, but a small part of him wondered if he was going to show because, after all, the girl did say that…

Jehan was doing it again.  He needed to stop thinking about the shaggy-haired tea clerk and go back to fawning over the Adonis sitting in front of him.  It made Jehan exponentially happy that not only was the blonde a statuesque vision but he was also irreverently smart (received his doctorate in political science) and accomplished (currently working as a policy analyst at the Governor’s office) and driven (co-owns a non-profit center for kids who come from impoverished homes).

Courfeyrac worked in a tea shop…not that there was any reason for Jehan to compare the two.

Just when he had resolved to not let his thoughts wonder toward the brunette for the rest of the morning, the man in question walked in.  Perhaps walked wasn’t the proper word because it looked more like he had unceremoniously stumbled through the door, a bit breathless and with his jacket all askew.  His bedhead was atrocious and Jehan wanted to scold him for it and, really, he should stop staring but how could he not when Courfeyrac’s teeth-baring smile was directed solely at him.  It was a smile Jehan wanted to put on reserve so that the man was only ever allowed to smile at him that way.

Jehan bashfully returned the smile until he realized exactly what he was doing.

Ugh.  No.  Focus on Enjolras.  He was here with Enjolras who was beautiful and had the brains to boot.  Jehan couldn’t ask for anything more.

A small silence lapsed between the pair as they sipped their tea, during which time Courfeyrac wove through the tables (passing directly by Jehan and giving him an artful wink) to meet up with Eponine.

Jehan couldn’t quite catch their conversation, but he did hear the tail end of it when Eponine clasped Courfeyrac on the shoulder and said, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Boss?  So, he wasn’t a tea clerk after all?  And all this time…ugh.

This bit of information would not vanish from Jehan’s thoughts, as much as he willed it to, so he made an excuse to Enjolras about going to order some more pastries.

When Jehan approached the counter, Courfeyrac was—as expected—wearing a shit-eating grin and leaning against the back wall with his arms folded loosely across his chest.

Jehan was ready to launch into his accusation, but Courfeyrac cut him to the quick.  “So, what, is this your symbolic way of cutting the cord?  Do you suddenly feel you can handle these dates without me now?  I’m crushed, Prouvaire, truly.”

“This was the only day that worked for him and I don’t have—”  Jehan stopped, remembering why he came over here in the first place.  “You know what, no.  I’m not on trial here, you are.  You led me to believe that you were some minimum wage tea server and pastry-making extraordinaire.  And now, after six weeks of coming here, I find out that you’re actually a manager?  Explain yourself, sir.”

Courfeyrac pushed off the wall, opting to lean on his elbows on the counter in front of him—the only barrier between him and the red-haired poet.  “I didn’t lead you to believe anything.  And just so we have our records straight, I’m not the manager.  I, uh, own this place.”

Slack-jawed, Jehan slapped his palms on the countertop and leaned in closer.  There really was no reason for their faces to be this close in casual conversation.  He shook his head disbelievingly.  “I thought we were friends, Courf,” he said, donning a look of mock betrayal.  “Although, come to think of it, perhaps I should’ve known that you were the only person eccentric enough to incorporate a pun into the name of their tea shop.”

“Hey, I wholeheartedly defend that name, because not only is it ‘puntastic’, but tea is a calming remedy that leaves you with a feeling of ‘serenity’.  It just fits.”

Jehan rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.  You’re still not forgiven and puns are just silly.”  He had to admit that the teasing was fun.  Courfeyrac was so easy to talk to and the smiles and laughter kind of gave him a euphoric feeling and—oh, crap!  His date!  “Um, I should probably get back to Enjolras.  This one’s surprisingly going well so far.  I may not need your help after all.  Oh, and can I have two of the éclairs, please?”

Courfeyrac’s smile faltered a bit at the mention of Jehan’s date.  The brunette saw the man when he first walked in and already began panicking internally—thankfully he was really good at hiding it.  When the poet started fishing for singles in his wallet, Courfeyrac sighed.  “Jehan, how many times do I have to tell you that I refuse to make you pay for a pastry specifically named after you?  It feels unethical to charge you when the Prouvaire Éclair has made us so much money already.”

“Fine,” Jehan said, grabbing the éclairs and slowly backing away, “but one of these days there will be a giant present on your doorstep that will compensate you for all the free tea and goodies you’ve given me and the rules of polite society state that you cannot refuse it.”

The poet swiveled on his heels, heading back to the table with the unbelievably attractive blonde that made Courfeyrac uneasy.  He watched the pair—more like he watched Jehan—and wondered how he let everything that he ever wanted slip from his grasp.

“Sorry that took so long,” Jehan said apologetically, sliding one of the delectable treats over to Enjolras’ side of the table.  “I know the owner and we were just,” (shamelessly flirting?), “catching up.”

Enjolras nodded as he eyed the cream-filled pastry with a quizzical brow.  “Do you come here often?”

“Only recently.  I’ve been bringing all my dates here because it has a more neutral atmosphere than a bar—although, I usually come on days when it’s nowhere near this crowded and much better for conversation.”

“And how’s that going so far?” the blonde asked.  “The other dates, I mean.  I only ask because you’re the first person from that website that I’ve decided to meet.  I’m not too familiar with this whole process.”

Jehan started to shrug, thinking he could creatively embellish on his experiences to give the blonde at least a little bit of hope in this department, but in the end he felt obligated to tell the whole, unforgiving truth.  “Honestly?  You’re the first one that hasn’t made me want to pull my hair out.  Those dating profiles don’t showcase people’s oddities or quirks, but they definitely come out once you meet them.  I also had a few blind dates that were complete disasters.  I’m pretty sure the first one still takes the cake because he was disgustingly hung over and moped about his ex-boyfriend the whole time.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.  I know what it’s like to put up with a chronic drunk.”  Enjolras thought better of saying the next part, but then it kind of just slipped out of his mouth.  “And bad break ups.”

“No, but you don’t understand,” Jehan retorted, trying to emphasize his point, “this wasn’t just some bad break up for the guy.  He was a destructive mess.  He was clearly putting his ex on some kind of pedestal, even going as far as calling him a god, and he kept blaming himself for screwing it all up.  I think Cosette was spot on when she called it an ‘unhealthy relationship’.”

It was at those words that everything started to fall apart.  Enjolras blinked rapidly.  “Wait…are you referring to Cosette Fauch—I mean, Cosette Pontmercy?”

Jehan’s eyebrows shot up.  “You know Cosette?  This is a small world, indeed!”  The gentle poet then considered that if this date continued to go smoothly, it would be quite easy to bring this man into his circle of friends.  “How do you know her?”

The blonde stumbled on his next words.  “I, um, that is, we have a mutual…friend.”  It could have ended there.  They could have talked about literature (which Jehan was really quite surprised they had yet to breach that topic) or the rising number of wildfires spreading throughout the whole southern part of the state.  Jehan also realized that he was not entirely averse to asking Enjolras what products he used in his hair, because those golden curls were really unnatural unless he happened to be wealthy enough to keep a personal stylist on staff.

But Enjolras wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—leave well enough alone.

“This is probably going to sound intrusive, but the man that Cosette set you up with…the drunk?  Did he…did he, um, have dark, curly hair?”

“Yes?” Jehan replied skeptically, because that was a rather odd question to be asking.  Although, perhaps the blonde knew him as well.

Enjolras gulped uneasily.  “Did he also have paint-stained fingers?”

“Um,” Jehan muttered slowly, “I didn’t get a close look at his hands.  But he did tell me that he likes to paint.  Enjolras, what’s going—”

“Did the scruff on his neck look ridiculously uneven because of the half-assed way he shaves, nicking his skin in some places and always arguing that the razor was defective while simultaneously applying bits of toilet paper on the fresh cuts?”  Enjolras was off in his own little world now, completely lost in his thoughts and, apparently, fond memories.

It didn’t take Jehan long to put two and two together, though the shock was written all over his face.  “You…you’re Grantaire’s ex?”

Saying his name must have made the situation all too real for Enjolras, that final confirmation that tipped the scale.  “I can’t believe he would go out on a date!  I mean, I know _I_ was the one who said we should see other people, but…I always assumed he never would.  He told me he never thought of being with anyone else.”

“That sounds a bit selfish,” Jehan interjected, though he didn’t know why because this was a horrible conversation to begin with and he was just making the hole deeper.  “ _You_ can go on dates, but he can’t?”

“That’s not—look, you don’t know him, and you certainly don’t know us!”  Enjolras’ sharp tone softened when he remembered something Jehan said previously.  “You said he was moping.  What did you notice?  Did he say anything in particular about me?”

Jehan was breathing heavily through his nose, using all of his strength not to shout in this crowded tea shop.  “I’m not doing this, Enjolras.  I’m not going to be your messenger.  If you want to get back together with the dysfunctional and highly dependent drunk, then by all means go.  It’s quite obvious he’s not over you either.”

With only a small amount of reluctance, Enjolras finally stood.  He grabbed his wallet and threw (way too much) money on the table.  A gentle sigh escaped the blonde’s lips when he looked at Jehan one last time.  “I didn’t want it to turn out this way, Jehan.  You’re a good person, and I hope you find someone worthy of you.”  He gave a polite bow before exiting out the front door.

Jehan could only sit and remain dumbfounded for the next several minutes.  He definitely did not want the date to turn out this way either.  Not to say he truly thought there could be a ‘forever’ for him and Enjolras—one date was too soon to make such a bold proclamation—but he was definitely the first respectable guy he’d gone out with in a while.  _I hope you find someone worthy of you._ Those words stung more than anything else.  That was precisely what he was trying to do this last month and a half, but to no avail.  All of his dates thus far either had flaws that Jehan could not look past or were in love with someone else.  Was this to be the story of his life?

He had been trying so hard to make this whole dating thing work.  He put himself out there—something he never did before.  He practically bought a new wardrobe for these Tuesday afternoon occurrences with the sole intent on making a good impression.  Hell, he even jotted down some poignant conversation starters in case of an awkward lull.  Jehan went above and beyond, and this was what he got back in return.

No.  Stop.  He wasn’t going to cry.  He really, desperately wanted to cry and vent about all of his frustrations but he was in a public place and that would be humiliating so he wasn’t going to cry.  But his lip began to quiver and the strain caused from withholding tears was almost too much to bear.  He needed to make a quick exit, no time for a parting exchange between him and Courfeyrac…

Courfeyrac, the very same person who was suddenly at the poet’s side and snatching his hand within his own, leading him to some back part of the shop that was quite unfamiliar.  Courfeyrac, who gently squeezed Jehan’s fingers as a nonverbal cue of his support and care.  Courfeyrac, the only person to date who seemed completely capable of reading Jehan’s body language and knowing when he needed to be removed from a situation.

There were so many overwhelming thoughts swimming in Jehan’s head that he couldn’t even look at the brunette at the moment.

“We’re alone now,” Courfeyrac said reassuringly, rubbing his hand up and down Jehan’s sweater-encased arm (not the hand that was still attached to Jehan’s and had no intention to let go).  “You don’t need to hold it in anymore.  It’s okay.”

Jehan stifled a shuttering sigh.  “I’m…I’m not holding anything in.  I’m fine, just fine.  You might even say I’m peachy.”

“I’ve seen your ‘peachy’ look, Jehan.  This isn’t it.  What happened?  Talk to me.  Did he say something to offend you because—I swear to God, Jehan—if he hurt you in any way I will personally—”

“No,” Jehan quickly interrupted, because as much as he would love to know how Courfeyrac would defend his honor, he couldn’t really blame Enjolras for his overly emotional state.  “He didn’t do anything wrong.  That is to say, I’m not angry with him for what he did.  Fate’s just cruel sometimes.”

Courfeyrac was being so sweet and delicate with Jehan, doing little things here and there like tucking a strand of copper hair behind his freckled ear.  “What did fate do this time?” he said softly, a small smile changing the shape of his pretty lips.

He wanted to tell him but at the same time he didn’t.  It sounded petty even in his own head and surely Courfeyrac would laugh at him for feeling this way.  “What fate normally does.”

“Jehan, you can tell me.  You can tell me anything.”

And that was all it took for the tears and the words to come flowing out of him like a gushing river.  “It just happened so unexpectedly, you know…and things seemed like they were going great…and he was really nice and unbelievably smart…but how was I supposed to know it would end like that?  I shouldn’t have mentioned my previous dates, namely Grantaire…although it was probably doomed from the start if they still love each other…but why would either of them go on dates if they still felt that way?  And why did it have to be with me?  Am I just some pawn that gets thrown around, helping people find happiness but never able to reach that point myself?  Have I wasted the last month in a half on a fruitless pursuit?  I just…I just don’t know what to do.  I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t think I can go through with this any longer.”

“Hey,” Courfeyrac cooed against Jehan’s ear after enveloping the smaller man within his arms.  He stroked the poet’s hair to pacify his violent sobs.  “You are not alone.  Don’t you ever think that.  You’ve got your family and your friends and even though I’ve never met any of them, I know that they love you and would do anything to make you happy.  I mean, what’s not to love about you, Jehan?  You’re charismatic and not afraid to speak your mind or dress how you feel.  You look forward to the future but also live for the present.  And though it takes a bit of effort to get a true smile out of you, when you do it’s like the whole world lights up.  Jehan, if you had a fan club, I would be its president.”

Jehan slowly lifted his head up—trying not to focus on what combination of snot and tears he left on Courfeyrac’s shirt—using the back of his hand to hastily wipe at his wet cheek.  Courfeyrac helped after that half-hearted attempt, gently caressing the poet’s cheek with his thumb, reaching just beneath his eyelashes.

This was it.  This was what the perfect moment felt like.  Well, apart from the potential snot issue, but again, he really didn’t want to think about that at present.  Courfeyrac was so beautiful to him right now.  Perhaps he always was, with his artful grins and attentive gazes, but this was a part of Courfeyrac that Jehan never saw before and he was mesmerized by it.

Deep down in his gut, Jehan knew that this was…this was home.  Courfeyrac’s tenderness opened a gateway to possibilities: strolling through the park hand in hand, sampling new pastries behind the counter then subsequently dragging his pastry chef into the supply closet for a heated make out session, cuddled up in bed with the kitten they newly adopted from the sheltered.  He wanted this, and the look in Courfeyrac’s eyes made Jehan think he wasn’t the only one.

All it took were a few precious seconds.  Their faces inched closer and their breathing became erratic.  The electric pull was there and it was exciting and the only way Jehan’s agony could end is if Courfeyrac’s lips were on his own.  His skin was humming and any second now they would—

“Hey, boss, do you know where—”

They flew apart so quickly that the speed of their reaction made it even more obvious to Eponine what they were up to.

“Oh, shit!  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know that you guys were—”

“No, it’s fine, Ep,” Courfeyrac interjected, not wanting the girl to say anything that would add to the awkward tension that lingered in the air.  “We were just talking.  What do you need?”

Eponine bit her lip.  She felt guilty for walking in on something that was clearly progressing, and Courfeyrac would probably complain to her later about cockblocking him, but she had his attention now and the customers were still waiting.  “I’ve got a lady who wants to buy a whole box of our Jasmine Oolong and I wasn’t sure if we had any unopened cartons to sell her.”

Because this was his shop and he knew exactly where everything was located, Courfeyrac walked with determination toward the nearest shelf and crouched down low to inspect his cases of Oolong tea.  After a few seconds of careful searching, he found the one he was looking for and handed it to Eponine.  “Charge $32.50 for the case.” 

Eponine gave an apologetic smile before heading back out to the cash wrap.  Courfeyrac ran a hand over his face, clearing his head and trying to come up with the right thing to say that wouldn’t scare Jehan away.

But it was too late, because when Courfeyrac turned around Jehan was no longer there.


End file.
